


Say a Little Prayer for Me

by SaoirseKennedy



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, New York City, Post-War, RELIGIOUS TURMOIL, SO MUCH FLUFF, also angst, comforting dick, do you think i'm projecting onto lew, like always
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-27 15:44:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7624480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaoirseKennedy/pseuds/SaoirseKennedy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lewis gets caught praying to a God he often thought didn't exist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Say a Little Prayer for Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dancinguniverse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancinguniverse/gifts), [semperama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/semperama/gifts), [jouissant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jouissant/gifts).



> I am gifting this to my favorite Winnix writers, Jouissant, dancinguniverse, and Semperama, because I just want to be part of the good writer's club and I hope it makes them smile. Anyways, enjoy!

If he’s honest with himself, which is rare, Lewis probably prays more than Dick. He finds himself whispering the Lord’s Prayer while he’s cooking eggs for Dick, or when he’s hovering over the small garden out back, looking for strawberries to pick and put in the peach colored bowl on the kitchen counter. The words are smoothed over in his mouth, worn out from so much use throughout his childhood. Latin phrases are burned into his head from hundreds of church services, and at odd times Lew will find himself stringing them together with other thoughts in his head. 

What’s fascinating to Lewis, is that he almost never prayed during the war. When the other good Catholic boys bent their head in prayer and received absolution, Lewis was usually as far away as possible, drinking his beloved Vat or chain-smoking with Speirs. The last time he had held a rosary was at his own time bomb of a wedding, and that had only been for a brief moment. Dick had had to deal with Nix’s laundry list of problems with the Church for years now, and despite his own quiet faith and loyalty, he always listened patiently, which made Lewis feel like a first class ass. 

Yet back home in New York, Lewis had felt a sudden urge to pray all the time. He dug out his mother’s old rosary, stealing it away without his sister’s eyes spying him. No doubt Blanche would think he was going crazy for suddenly crawling back to the Church. Blanche herself had stopped going when she moved out of the Nixon estate. 

Nixon’s parents went to St. Patrick’s faithfully, but it was only to socialize and keep up appearances, and they sent their children to Catholic school in Massachusetts for the same reason.

Lewis hated Catholic school. Nuns were always scaring the shit out of him, convincing him he would go to Hell for one reason or other. When he was thirteen he began regularly skipping midday Mass, sometimes with help from Blanche, who had quit long before him. He’d steal cigarettes even though he always had money for them, and go sit out on the huge football field beside the school. If he wanted to skip the whole day he’d run down to the local diner and order the biggest burger they served. He’d use all his quarters in the jukebox machine and stuff his face while thinking about anything but God and Hell. 

Nix is caught praying one day by Dick, who arrives home earlier than usual. 

Nixon scrambles up from where he was kneeling on the floor, elbows resting on the edge of their beautiful king sized bed. His hands had been clasping that old Nixon rosary, but now it lays splayed on the floor, half fallen under the bed. 

“Nix?” Dick says in that voice that always seems on the verge of amusement. It’s curious and cutting to Lew’s brain. The prayers he’s been muttering for weeks now suddenly disappear from his memory. His hands are sweaty, and he wipes them on his nice trousers, although he immediately regrets it; they were a Christmas gift from Dick. 

“You’re home early,” he says, entirely unconvincingly. 

“Yeah,” Dick says, momentarily distracted. “Tommy let me out early,” he’s speaking slowly, and Lewis knows he’s trying to get Lew to look up, up into Dick’s honest eyes. 

“Slow day in the steel industry of New York?” 

“Yeah, actually,” Dick chuckles, and Lewis thinks maybe he’s off the hook. “Although we’re making a lot of progress on the new conference center on Wall Street,” he says this with a passion for his job that Lewis has never had, and it stirs up something in Lew. He feels pride in Dick, and a shame in himself for lacking ambition or any semblance of a work-ethic. The feeling makes him want to clutch his rosary again. Latin jumps out at him under his eyelids. 

“That’s good,” he nods. When his eyes finally slide up to meet Dick’s, he knows instantly he won’t get out of the room without answering Dick’s unasked question. His eyes are soft, but burning with realization and curiosity. They’re big and blue and as beautiful as ever. Lew’s mouth twitches in impatience, so he blurts, “Oh, damn it, Dick, just get on with it.” 

The perpetual smile that Dick always has waiting for him reveals itself to Lew’s show of grumpiness. He bends down to get Lew’s rosary, but he doesn’t give it back to him. Instead he inspects it, genuine fascination beaming out of his face. 

“I didn’t know you prayed,” he says simply. 

“Catholic habits die hard,” he remarks, trying to squirm out of the topic. But Dick deserves more, deserves to know that Lew doesn’t really know why he’s doing it, or if it’ll stop. “Actually, it’s become kind of like a nervous habit,” he bites his lip, waiting for Dick to stop staring at the stupid rosary. 

“Really?” 

“Yeah. Seems strange,” when Dick quirks an eyebrow at him, Lew explains. “Well, you’d think I’d pray like a son of a bitch during the war, not after. What good is prayer gonna do me now?” 

“But Lew, people pray all the time,” Dick laughs. 

“Well yeah, but I don’t really need it now, do I?” 

“I’m not sure that’s what it’s about,” Dick has finally looked up. A twinge of concern crops up in his eyes. 

Lewis shrugs. “I guess I feel like I need to make up for lost time,” God, he hates it when he’s honest. 

“What does that mean?” Dick grabs Lew’s hand, softly pressing him to continue. 

“Oh I don’t know. I feel like I owe God one for making sure I didn’t get blown up over there, ya know?” so now Lewis prays constantly, a obsessive string of words repeated over and over again until he feels like maybe he’s more deserving of being alive. He let’s this last thought go unsaid. 

“I understand that,” Dick says, but it sticks in his throat a little on the way out. “But really, Lew, you don’t owe God anything.” 

“Says the Quaker,” Lewis grounds out. 

“Nix,” Dick says, and there’s the quiet irritation on his tongue. 

“I’m just surprised you would say that, is all. You’ve never questioned God before,” Lewis says petulantly. 

Dick rubs his thumb over Lewis’ knuckles. His hands are slightly dry, and there are too many freckles on the back for Lewis to count. Maybe he’ll try later when Dick is sleeping, his hands wrapped loosely around whatever part of Lewis he can find. 

“That’s not exactly true,” He whispers. “I wonder why God let the war happen, why he would let so many people die for no reason, or why I got to come back and so many didn’t,” the last statement surprises Nix, but Dick doesn’t look that upset. It’s as if he’s talking about something as mundane as what color the grass is. 

“I wonder why He put you in my life,” Dick continues, looking Lewis straight in the eye. 

It’s moments like these that Lew hates his inability to look emotion head on. A swelling of affection, confusion, terror, and love bubbles up in his throat, and he honest to God thinks he may be sick. His empty hand fumbles for beads that are clasped in Dick’s hand.

“You afraid he made a mistake?” Lewis can’t help it; he bleeds self-deprecation. 

“Not at all,” Dick says it with deliberate casualness. “Just, why me?” 

Lewis doesn’t know if he’s talking about falling in love with a man, about being something that is so condemned, or if he’s wondering why he’s been seemingly assigned to someone so different to him. 

Dick reaches across to Lewis’ face, pushing his wrinkled eyebrows away from each other. “Lewis,” he says, full of patience that Lewis knows he’s not deserving of. “Whatever you’re thinking,” he ghosts a kiss on Lew’s cheek. “It’s not what I’m thinking,” he gets closer to Lew, crowding his thinking space. 

It’s all Lew can do not to grab onto Dick and never let go. “Do you ever think about why you didn’t fall in love with a woman? Why you didn’t get married and have a life like every guy dreams of?” a guy like Harry, who was off making babies and getting drunk in his own house in the newly built suburbs. At least that’s what he’s heard. 

“You don’t dream of that,” Dick says. 

“Yeah, because I already had that,” Lew’s eyes go dark, but Dick is right next to him to pull him out. 

“Maybe I shouldn’t dream of that, given how it worked out for you,” it’s a slight tease, something to remind Lewis that Dick does indeed have a sense of humor. 

“What are we talking about here, Dick?” Nix shakes his head 

“Questioning God, and all his mysterious ways,” Dick says, not done poking at Lew’s ribs. 

“Oh come on, now you decide to get cute?” Lewis pushes halfheartedly at Dick, but Dick immediately pulls himself back to Nix. 

“I think it’s nice,” Dick says. 

“What?” Nix wraps his arms around Dick, feeling overwhelmingly tender for him, who easily molds to Lew’s form. 

“That you pray,” he says this into Lew’s neck, warm breath fogging up his skin. “But you shouldn’t do it because you think you owe something to God.” 

He makes it sound so simple, like religious turmoil can be wiped away with soft hand-holding and encouragement whispered into the crook of his neck, although Lewis has to admit that he’s making a compelling case right now. 

“Why don’t I ever see you praying?” Lewis croaks out, his thoughts drifting further and further away from holy thoughts. 

“You see me praying all the time,” Dick retorts back, but he’s pushing Lewis down onto the soft cotton sheets behind them. He puts Lew’s mother’s rosary on the side table, and Lewis blinks at it a few times. Dick pulls off his work boots, and just then Lewis realizes Dick smells like the train and the wind and the last dregs of a mid-afternoon coffee. 

It’s a long time before Lewis thinks to press Dick on a clarification. Dick is methodical, placing kisses over every inch of his neck, dropping caresses over his shoulders, pulling slightly at Nix’s beautifully pressed shirt. It will be wrinkled in no time, and Lewis feels a smug satisfaction at this thought. Ironically, Dick is the one who ironed it in the first place; the fact that Dick will destroy its smoothness is all sorts of poetic justice, although Lew’s brain can’t quite figure out the exact metaphor in the moment.

When Lew does get the words out, he’s almost expecting Dick to ignore him. He expects a quirk of his mouth, nothing more. 

“When do I see you praying?” Lew’s eyes are closed, his head arching on the pillow. 

Dick abruptly pulls up, his lips cherry red with exertion. His mouth does quirk, but there’s something bittersweet in his eyes. Lewis opens his eyes, but he stays still, watching Dick carefully above him. 

Dick runs his hands up and down Lew’s side, looking him over carefully, as if checking for a wound. It’s now that Lew considers counting the freckles on Dick’s hands, if only to get him to stop his restless caressing. 

But he’s transfixed by the reverent look in his eyes. It makes Lewis a little nervous, like he’s being picked apart by an angel. 

Dick bends his head to Lew’s ear. He kisses his hairline a few times, and warm comfort spills into Lew’s extremities. 

“Oh, Lew,” he whispers. “I’m praying right now.” 


End file.
